fic: Be Sought Or Seeking (Or Found)
Be Sought Or Seeking (Or Found).
10,000+ words, Pete/Patrick, NC-17.
Major heads up and thanks and toffee cake to dimmingdivine for all handholding and flailing! I loooove you.
Inspired by this WAC prompt. So unbelievably fake. Totally not real! Always choose the back button.

After the first time they do it, the it it, Pete snuffles in close and breathes against Patrick's neck with soft hot little in-outs that sound too loud in Patrick's ears. Pete's fingers are heavy and damp against his skin where they rest, and Patrick holds tight to the touch and feels like he's having an out of body experience, almost. The ceiling is black and the air is black and Pete's hair is even blacker where it tickles the side of his face, his shoulder. Patrick figures the time is now for existentialism, so what the hell.

Pete shifts and his whole body is warm, and heavy. His fingers move a little, stroke once or twice at Patrick, at the bed covers. He yawns and blinks his eyes open, catches Patrick's stare and holds it for a long second. He looks vaguely surprised to see Patrick looking back. Then, he smiles.

"Shit," is all he says, voice croaky raw, "I'm fucking tired, dude. I think I'm gonna go to bed."

And he lifts himself up, gathers himself together, and slips quietly out.

The place his arm dragged across feels empty after, and Patrick stares at the black and considers the different of Pete being there like he was, and the different of him leaving after, and how they somehow intertwine.

Patrick smiles at the ceiling.



-



The first time they do it, the it it, Pete can't sleep in the cool empty sheets of his own bunk. It's past four in the AM, and his mind is whirling, twisting, turning, punching itself, doing back flips - whatever the fuck. And Pete can't sleep, couldn't give less of a fuck, because he and Patrick just-

Pete can't help it, can't help the mindless iloveyou i love you i fckin cant believe we just that he types out on his cell phone and accidentally sends. And Patrick is with him, right there with him with a shut up dude shut up its fine its fine itsfine.

Pete says my bed is so freakin cold without you dude where areu? i cant believe we just i cant imean and accidentally presses send again, swears, finishes with you actually let me finallyfinally ilove you you I LOVE

There's a long, long pause: hours in Pete's head and minutes in real time. Pete goes over and over and over it in his mind in replay, and smiles and swears and mutters stupid senseless shit to himself, because fucking Patrick, dude, fucking Patrick.

Patrick eventually replies with, ssh ssh pete its okay dude its ok. come back over here if you need it. just try to get some sleep. x

And Pete doesn't sleep, goes back over it several more thousand times and texts Patrick again and again instead, but he tries. He tries.



-



The first time, the time that wasn't the it it, but which was the start of the something, was mostly accidental and also mostly Pete's fault. Patrick's bunk was comfier than Pete's own for a variety of reasons, partly due to the company, and partly due to the smell and feel and overall Patrickness of it.

And therefore it wasn't unusual for Pete to come in demanding that, "Dude, dude, dudedudedude I can't sleep okay," so, "Move over, move over, what are you doing? Get out of the way, I'm coming in." It wasn't worth fighting even though Patrick was stubborn and grumpy when sleep-deprived; Pete just kicked him to the side and slid himself into the space created, ignoring Patrick's "Oh my god go away," and instead choosing to behave as if Patrick were the nuisance.

"Will you move for fuck's sake you're so annoying," he mutters, and throws in some extra elbow as he shifts about. "I swear these things have gotten smaller. Wait, ow, get off."

Patrick groans some, in that sleepy disgruntled sort of way that is meant to convey both his hate for Pete and his agreement that these things definitely are getting smaller. "It's so fucking early," he manages to croak out. "Or late. I wish you wouldn't do this."

"Shut up shut up it's time for sleep now," is Pete's only reply, and he turns and curls himself around Patrick, arm across his belly and nose tucked under Patrick's neck, just the slightest tickle from sideburn.

"I hate you. I hate you I hate you I hate you," Patrick mutters. "And that's my hoodie, dickface, you'd better give it back, dude. You'd better."

"I've been sleeping in it all week and you haven't noticed," Pete says brightly, muffled.

Patrick scrunches his eyes shut and open a few times to adjust, before rolling back to look over his shoulder at Pete's too-awake face. "Why are you sleeping in my hoodie? Pete, you're such a little creep, Jesus."

Pete just grins at him, and his face is too close; Patrick can see the brightness of his eyes and knows he shouldn't notice. "It smells of you," Pete says softly. "It's comfy. I like it."

Patrick sighs a little, and goes to turn back over. "Fine. Have it."

Pete's hand tightens on his waist, pulling him back. "No," he says. "Patrick."

Patrick tenses to the touch and looks over his shoulder at Pete. Pete is frowning at him thoughtfully as his other palm comes up to play with the sideburn.

Patrick keeps very still as Pete leans down to kiss him. He lets him do it, lets him drag his lower lip over Patrick's, before tilting his head away, murmuring, "Pete."

"Okay okay, sorry," he says quickly, and squeezes Patrick tighter. "Sorry, sleeping. This is just a dream, it's fine."



-



The first time, the time that wasn't technically the it it, but was definitely close, was the result of a random sequence of moments that were nearly it but not quite. It started with Pete touching the base of Patrick's spine in the dressing room after shows, not entirely over-friendly but not entirely not, and Patrick flushing and making awkward excuses to leave. It progressed to Pete coming up to him and breathing hotly against his neck in the middle of songs, against the heated dampness of his skin; and Patrick wouldn't falter then, but would turn and mouth, "Fuck you," in the seconds after. Most significant was the way that Pete dicked around with security or his endless supply of friends during the comedown after, but the way his nights always seemed to be spent in Patrick's bed or Patrick's room or Patrick's bunk, whispering nonsense in his ear at two in the morning.

At the Chicago show Pete follows Patrick out after a quick inappropriate and entirely wrong joke about gay men in hot-tubs, which isn't even really funny and was almost certainly twisted to include Patrick, somehow. Pete is still laughing as he says, "Dude, dude! Chill, Patrick. Seriously, I was messing, come on."

Patrick whirls round and snaps, "Okay, for one: fuck you, and for two, leave me alone." He doesn't even know why he's annoyed, it's not like he hasn't had to put up with Pete's horrendously unfunny jokes for the more interesting portion of his life, it's just. Pete takes everything that one step too far.

"Paaatrick," Pete whines, still fucking grinning, and he catches Patrick up with a short running step, puts a hand to his shoulder. "Hey, dude, come on."

Pete doesn't look particularly sorry in the flickering lights of the long white corridor, but his voice echoes and his hand is comforting, so Patrick stops and turns with a sigh. He looks at Pete and Pete is fucking smiling, and Patrick does this stupid half-quirk of a thing back, mostly without realizing.

"Okay okay, whatever," he says eventually. "But for the record, I forgave you with minimal bitching, so you owe me shit. Okay? You owe me."

"Okay okay, I owe you," Pete says quick, and pulls Patrick into an uncomfortable one-armed hug. He's sweaty and smells quite frankly like a member of the living dead, but Patrick gives him a quick squeeze back before ducking out from under.

Pete follows it up with a sloppy kiss to the cheek that Patrick makes faces at and shoves him off for, muttering, "Ew, Pete," in a tone full of laughter. But he rubs at the spot and glares with smiles in his eyes.

"What?" Pete says brightly, and tugs him closer. "No, really. What? What?" And he does it again, Patrick grumbling all the while with a palm pressed to Pete's chest in a vain attempt to keep some sort of distance.

Pete chances it, though, goes nearer and nearer across and down his cheek before catching Patrick's mouth quickly; a quick sloppy brush of lips and the tail end of laughter, and it's over.

Patrick ducks away, red, regardless, and snaps, "Pete," too harsh. "Cut it out."

Pete squeezes his shoulders again and mutters, "Sorrysorry," over and over, until Patrick stops looking at him sideways and relaxes. "Come on," Pete says brightly, squeezes again, his fingers warm on the seams of Patrick's t-shirt at the neck. "Let's get out of here."

Pete drives in his stupidridiculous oversized car, and makes Patrick call Joe to let them know that they weren't abducted: Patrick just got pissy ("Hey, fuck you, you owe me"; "All right, whatever. Hey, do you think it would be cool if we got everyone on Decaydance a Clan car? Like a fleet of bartskulls or whatever." "--No."). They get greasy delicious take out from a drive-in, and Pete navigates the old roads, mumbling about this film he wants to see, maybe it's on right now, maybe they should go and see it some time, definitely. Or is Patrick tired? Does he want to just crash at Pete's?

And Patrick is tired, because tours are fucking tiring, and however good it is to be home and to have old friends within a few-mile radius, he would also just really, really like to sleep for a while first. So Pete drives them to his place and has to search for the right key on the fucking ring, Patrick shivering on the porch next to him as his body starts to cool after the heat of the show.

"Come on, come on," he mumbles, chattering. "Pete. Hey no, come on, you are totally doing this on purpose."

Pete grins at him and drops the keys, a sarcastic "Oops," added in for Patrick's benefit. As he bends to pick them up he stoops to open the door, though, and Patrick scoots round and into the semi-warmth of a house that's stood dormant for several weeks. There's a neat pile of letters and bills by the door courtesy of Pete's parents, and a slight faded smell to the air. Pete goes to open the windows out back first, clattering about in the dark kitchen and talking to Patrick mindlessly through the doors. Patrick leans against the wall just outside and smiles.

"I'm meant to be going paintballing or something tomorrow," Pete says absently. "I think. Or maybe it was tonight, I'm not sure."

"You can go if you want."

Pete shrugs. "No," he says. "I'll just, I don't know, hang out here. See what I feel like. We only have like a day, is it really worth it?"

"I guess." Patrick blinks a little, and seriously, so fucking tired. He yawns, and Pete looks over at him, smiling crookedly.

"Tired?" he asks, mildly mocking, "Sorry to keep you up."

Patrick knocks him lightly in the shoulder. "Fuck you, I need my sleep, okay?"

"All right, all right, slow down Hollywood."

Pete leads him upstairs, though, lame sarcasm left behind, and prods him in the direction of the guest room, his finger a sharp jab to Patrick's arm. "You sleep there. I need a shower," he says helpfully. "If you need anything don't ask me because I have no idea."

"Cool," Patrick says, and, "Thanks."

He gets changed and gets into the bed, and it weirdly smells of nothing: not unwashed boy, not Pete, Andy, Joe, or himself. It's a little strange, but Patrick takes his glasses off and puts them on the nightstand. He closes his eyes and falls asleep to the sounds of running water.

Patrick dreams fitfully, with strange dark images floating in and out of focus, background noises muffled and then loud. The sound of Pete, maybe, talking soft, and Patrick thinks with clarity a sharp no and a desperate yes.

The noise takes on a different edge, suddenly, to match, Pete's voice low and indiscernible, the dark images edged with red light, then gone, a hand touching Patrick's leg, the soft scrape of a palm against his thigh, and a definite, "Patrick," cutting clear through the echoes. It's Pete's voice, Patrick is sure of it, and Pete's hand, and in his dream Patrick is saying, "Please, just," in a panted desperate hitch.

Patrick wakes at an embarrassing three-thirty, and it is embarrassing for the erection tenting the sheets and the sustained knowledge of what exactly caused such a reaction clear in his mind. Patrick lies very still and breathes into the pillow with long slow breaths, his eyes wide, because that's new.

Eventually, he gets up for a glass of water to try to shake it off, Pete to the forefront of his conscious and his fingers still a little shaky. Halfway down the stairs he hears the noise of the television, and the steady orange light filtering out from Pete's front room patterned by a blue flicker. Patrick's last few steps slow, he pauses, and when he leans into the room it's with a vague air of apprehension. "Pete?"

"Oh. Hey." Pete looks half-dead on the couch, resting on his own arm beneath his head, his hoodie pulled up high and the hood pulled down low. He stretches at the sight of Patrick, and smiles faintly. "Hey, you're up, too. Come sit."

Patrick hesitates but goes, pushing Pete's leg out of the way with a rough, "Move then, Pete, oh my god." His fingers feel clammy and hot where they touched Pete's leg, and once he's there he curls and uncurls his palms against his side with weird agitation in his belly.

Pete shifts against him, scratching at his jaw as he flips channels. "I couldn't sleep, dude, I just couldn't miss all this late night cooking channel stuff. 'S good shit."

Patrick smiles at the corner of his mouth. "Huh. And here I thought you were more of an unwrap-and-zap kinda guy."

Pete yawns some, stretches, muttering, "Wrong, my friend, so wrong," in a garbled jumble of syllables and tiredness. His hoodie has come up a little, and the corner of Patrick's eye is drawn to the line of thin brown skin. Pete prods him in the side. "So how come you're up? I thought you were like, unwakeable."

"I, uh," Patrick says distractedly, "Had a bad dream."

"Oh, no shit." Pete grins this earnest little smile and prods him some more. "I was going to say sorry for waking you, man. You looked kinda mad when you came down, thought you were gonna bust my ass."

Patrick smiles and shoves at him a little. "You got lucky, dude," is all he says. "I would have taken you."

"Uh huh uh huh."

Patrick falls asleep first, mostly sitting up at the start but he droops in his sleep, and it's gone four, maybe five, when he wakes up, confused and bewildered by the dark room and the flickering TV with no sound coming out of it. He blinks, taking a while to register that right, he stayed at Pete's, and oh hey he's lying on top of him all wrong, a hand to Pete's chest, kind of pressed between his legs.

Then he realizes why it is that he woke: that that is Pete against his thigh totally hard and also totally awake, tense beneath him as he tries to keep his breathing normal. Patrick blinks some more, surprised, and Pete looks up at him with a weirdly terrified kind of expression, one arm out flat to the couch, the other caught between them.

"Uh," Patrick starts, awkward in the shadow of early morning. "Uh, hi, this is." He trails off, because there is seriously no end to that sentence, and Pete just takes a little shaky inhale and says, "Um."

There's a pause, and Patrick goes to try to disentangle them, but he shifts wrong and Pete's breath catches, his eyes widening. "Um," Pete says, in a rough high pitched imitation of himself, "you might not wanna do that, PatrickPatrick."

"Oh," Patrick says, flushed. "Oh, oh. Sorry, I. Um." And there's just, what is he supposed to do, Pete is fucking hard against his thigh and this is the oddest, most awkwardly embarrassing moment of his life. "I feel like I should do something," he says, and his hands are all caught up in the soft fabric of Pete's hoodie. "But I, er, don't know what, um."

"Okay," Pete says. He takes a long deep breath. "Okay," he says. And he tilts his head up and kisses Patrick hard.

Pete's mouth moves against his and something in Patrick's head is saying knee him in the balls and something else is saying oh my god FINALLY, WENTZ with bright flashing lights and possibly applause. Patrick fights with the two momentarily, before giving in to the latter and kissing back, Pete's stubble and urgent mouth rough against his own. His hands feel too large and everything is just, big and wordless, and Pete makes this little sound and cups his free hand to the back of Patrick's neck.

"Hey so, I dreamt about you, or whatever," Patrick huffs out between kisses. "So this is kind of perfect."

Pete's fingers curl at the side of Patrick's face, and there's a smile hiding on his lips as he nips at Patrick's mouth. "No shit, really?" he breathes, and kisses Patrick harder, pulls him down and shifts his leg up.

"Um, yeah." And Pete's fucking mouth, oh my god.

Pete shoots him a wicked smile in response, his eyes alight and dancing as he nuzzles at Patrick's neck. He shifts them, and Patrick goes willingly, 'til Pete is sort of half on top, his mouth eager on Patrick's skin. Patrick makes a little sound at the back of his throat and Pete tilts in deeper, and for real, this is the best thing ever.

Pete pushes and pushes, little soft touches here and there and the sharp heat of tonguemouthteeth on Patrick's lips, neck, Pete's jaw. Patrick breathes heavy, these thoughtless great big inhales pressed against Pete's skin, and Pete gets a hand down between them and presses more.

Patrick groans into Pete's mouth without really meaning to, and Pete makes a desperate ragged sound and grinds down against him. Pete is hard against Patrick's inner thigh, and Patrick can't help but hook one arm around the back of Pete's neck and press the other between their legs, against the straining front of Pete's sweats. Pete makes an inarticulate noise and slides fingers into Patrick's hair, kisses deeper and thrusts against him.

Patrick gets his hand in just as Pete curls his palm around Patrick's cock through his pajama bottoms. The skin is hot and hard and new, and Patrick makes rough needy noises against Pete's lips as Pete kisses him fiercely. "I fucking want," Pete starts, heated, but doesn't end. He gets his hand in, curls his fist around Patrick's dick and jerks him off, a strange brightness in his eyes. Patrick feels a little overwhelmed, but this is also the hottest thing that's happened to him in a good long while, and he really wants Pete's dick in his mouth.

"Can I," Patrick starts, but it sounds so stupid. He strokes Pete's cock like he would his own, instead, and Pete makes a gasping desperate noise against Patrick's jaw. And it's just, the rawness of Pete's voice as he does it, Patrick has to just push up, his fists in Pete's shirt, Pete's hands falling from Patrick's clothing as he slides to the floor, gets on his knees. Yeah, he has to do this.

It takes a minute for Pete to register that Patrick is bent over on the carpet between his spread thighs, pulling Pete's sweats down and curling Pete's cock towards his mouth. Pete's mouth goes seven shades of dry. "You're um. Fuck." Pete's voice is breathless and disbelieving, his eyes wide. His skin feels hot beneath Patrick's fingers and Patrick has to cling to hold his nerve.

"Hi, down there," Pete says eventually in a strained tone, laughing breezily. His cock twitches in Patrick's hand.

Patrick looks up at him through his eyelashes, feeling ridiculous. "Hi," he says, steeling himself. He wiggles the fingers of his free hand at Pete in an awkward imitation of a wave. He licks his lips, runs his hand up Pete's stomach, over his abs, over the blue-black ink of his tattoo, feels a slight tremor under the touch as Pete's shirt is lifted. "I would just like to let you know that I'm probably going to suck at this, a lot." His fingers on Pete's cock tremble.

Pete makes a small sound at the back of his throat and coughs. "Well, cool, uh, that's kind of the idea of this, I guess, so."

Patrick rolls his eyes and gives Pete a shy half-smile. "Shut up," he says, and gingerly takes the head of Pete's cock between his lips. Pete inhales, sharp and loud, and Patrick glances up because if Pete pulls any of his shit now--

"No, no," Pete says quickly. "Don't stop you stupid fuck, just," he takes a deep breath, closes and opens his eyes as Patrick squeezes the base and goes down further. "Um," he ends on, airily. "Yeah, do that."

Patrick smiles lightly and finds a rhythm, sucks hard on Pete's cock with his fingers tight around the base. Pete chokes a bit on his breath as he says, "Oh, Jesus, Patrick," and pushes his fingers down into Patrick's hair. Patrick groans at the feel of it, at the weight and feel of Pete's dick on his tongue.

Pete makes a desperate high-pitched noise when Patrick pulls off, presses his fingers against Patrick's neck. "Patrick, please--"

Patrick's dick twitches and he mouths the head of Pete's cock, says, "I haven't done this for ever." His mouth is wet and his voice is a little croaky. "I hope I'm okay," he finishes with, and grins up at Pete, his fingers against the heat of his skin as he goes back down.

"Fuck," Pete hisses through gritted teeth. "You're a fucking jerk, Patrick Stump, oh god." He thrusts up hard, his fingers at the edge of Patrick's hairline, cupping the back of his neck, pressing him down as his hips twitch forward. Patrick swallows around Pete's dick and his mouth is wet and perfect, his lips swollen as they move, his hand a constant pressure against Pete's chest where Patrick is pressing his shirt and hoodie up. Pete says, "Fuck," again, with meaning, and his hips come right off the couch when he comes down Patrick's throat.

Patrick lets go of Pete and turns away to cough, a hand over his mouth and his eyes watering. Pete thinks for a split second that he might actually retch, but when Patrick turns back around he's laughing, softly. "Sorry," Pete says with a slight wince when he's come down properly, although he isn't sorry at all.

"Fuck you," is all that Patrick says, easy, and reaches down inside his pajama pants to jerk himself off.

Pete has never hit the floor so fast in his life. He gets on his knees, presses up against Patrick and licks into his mouth, slides hands down and wraps his hand around the sticky heat of his cock. Patrick breathes heavily against Pete's mouth and shudders against him until Pete goes to press a finger into his ass. He comes hard before Pete gets anywhere close, a low moan pressed into Pete's mouth, and Pete holds onto him tight until he's done.

There's silence in the seconds after, just the sounds of heavy regained breathing and the elastic snap of the pajama bottoms as Pete slides his hand out and wipes it off. Patrick cracks an eye open and waits for it to be awkward.

Pete hesitates for exactly fifteen seconds before he gets to his feet, reaching a hand back for Patrick. "Come on," he says simply. "You look beat."

Patrick pauses before he puts his palm in Pete's, curls his fingers round. Pete drags him upright and then upstairs, to Pete's room, where he is pushed onto the bed and then under the covers. It is only when Pete is settled beside, half curled around him, that the silence is allowed to fall.

The clock on the nightstand ticks over, its face moon-shaped in the pale of early morning, and all Patrick can think of is that he has to look at Pete tomorrow and try not to imagine the feel of his cock in his mouth, or Pete's come down his throat. He has to look at him and he has to get through the day pretending that nothing ever happened and--

"You're not allowed to freak out about this," Pete says fiercely.

There's a pause before Patrick says, "…I'm not."

There's a rustle, and Pete turns nearer, reaches over. "You are. Patrick. Look at me." Pete grabs for Patrick's chin, looks deep and intense into Patrick's eyes. "Okay?"

Patrick takes a deep shaky breath and exhales, "Okay."

They fall asleep, finally, with Pete's chin tucked under Patrick's neck. It is warm and close and comfortable. It is them.

Patrick blinks slowly awake far too early the next morning, frowns into the pale morning sunlight that leaks through the curtains and feels cold. Pete is not there.

Patrick thinks shit, and shuffles upright in Pete's bed.

"No, hey hey." Pete comes over from the door to the en suite, a hand outstretched, his eyes laughing. "No, Patrick, no, I didn't want to wake you, go back to sleep."

"Where are you going?" Patrick says, voice thick.

"Paintballing," Pete says, like it's obvious, and pulls on a clean hoodie.

There's a slight awkward pause before Patrick says, "Oh. Okay."

Pete smiles reassuringly and kisses Patrick sloppily on the cheek on his way out, looking ridiculous with a headband, oversized sunglasses and paintball gun in hand. The room feels emptier when he's gone.

Patrick dozes through the morning, and when he wakes up his own car is in the driveway, a note slipped under the wipers in Pete's signature scrawl reading: just in case you get cabin fever. like arnie, I'll be back.

Patrick smiles to himself, and busies himself by setting out on a mission for a fresh set of clothes and the other handful of annoying little necessities he forgot to pack first time around. His house seems quiet and unloved as he busies himself refilling and emptying bags. He's quick to leave.

When Patrick gets back to Pete's at around midday, strains of yellow light playing across the driveway, there's another note, this time at the foot of the banister. Patrick's fingers stroke the crumpled scrap of envelope as he deciphers Pete's chicken scratch: we've been called up for service again my friend. pick up's at one, but by that I mean two. I died so many times. showering, come say hi.

And sure enough, up the stairs there's the sound of distant running water and the odd off-key gravel-snatch of song. The clothes Pete left in that morning litter the carpet, stained orange, purple, blue.

Patrick follows the trail.



-




Fall Out Boy travel across America and then across the world, through air spaces and across stateliness, time zones, continents. Joe sits with Pete for plane flights because they can have gross out matches and viciously try to out-dirty the other with their cheating techniques on game consoles without overly offending anyone. Patrick and Andy can sleep and bitch about the others without being overly abused, and that way everyone is happy. For day travel on buses Andy and Pete hang out and have intense conversations about things they have cared about together for longer than Fall Out Boy has existed for. Joe keeps Patrick company, and vice versa, and all day they laugh and laugh and laugh.

At nights it is always, always PeteandPatrick, and together they make stupid jokes about the size of the other's dick, or their ability to suck cock, and bitch when one wants to do something the other doesn't. They steal make out sessions in bunks and jerk each other off in airport bathrooms - tick off more terminals and grotty stalls then they care to count - go down quick and dirty when they can, fuck each other raw when they have a big hotel room and a big bed all to themselves. That space is so wide and such a relief after long hours of cramped nothing, just them and each other and this, and the whole time they're there, they're touching, making up for all of the other endless times when they're not.




-




Patrick breathes relief when they get the twin two doors down from the others in a sweet hotel in Massachusetts nearly four months into it, and feels guilty at the hot excitement in his belly, his guts. He is unsubtle enough for Andy to mutter, "Don't worry, dude, I'm sure you and muscle man can push the beds together."

"Ha ha," Patrick deadpans, "Very funny." But they do.

They do, and Pete kisses him so hard once it's done that Patrick's mouth hurts, red and raw and Patrick just does not care. He runs his hands over Pete's shoulders, his spine, pulls him down on top of him and kisses him back.

Pete says "Hey, hey hey hey," and pulls back enough to pull off his shirt.

Pete pushes Patrick's hat off at the first lick at the head of Pete's cock, Patrick's mouth stung and sharp fingers in his hair and Pete PetePete groaning and swearing underneath him. He lifts his hips and pushes in deep to the back of Patrick's throat, and Patrick can't help it: he moans into it and presses his fingers so hard to Pete's skin that it indents and flames up after.

Pete says, "Patrick, Patrick," in a strained voice, and Patrick thinks of it after, as Pete pushes inside and hums against the sweaty skin of Patrick's throat. Patrick thinks I love- as Pete pulls out, thrusts back in long and slow.

It's good, so good, and Patrick sleeps after, with the sheets all tangled around their waists and Pete's arm slung across. It feels warm, and safe, and right. Even so, Pete waits until Patrick's asleep for sure, until he's snuffling a little, twitching at a dream or a nightmare, to whisper a croaky heartfelt, "Thank you," against the nape of his neck.




-




The next morning Pete comes out of the shower with a towel slung low on his hips, rubbing absentmindedly at his wet hair. Patrick is stretched out on the bed with the covers tangled in his legs, moving in that slow half-awake sort of way that mostly consists of yawning and stretching languidly against the sheets.

"Morning," he huffs, voice thick and slightly raw.

Pete smiles at him crookedly and pads nearer. "Hey," he says. He reaches down and grabs for Patrick's hand, tugs it hard and then harder.

"Hey, what are you doing," Patrick protests with his eyes still mostly shut. But he doesn't fight it, and he lets Pete pull him upright, blinking slowly into consciousness. "What do you want? You're all damp."

Pete grins at him and settles onto his knees at the bedside, taking a moment to adjust his towel in the process. He drops Patrick's arm and plays his fingers through the sheets instead. "Did you know that I jerked off to you in the shower just now? Just FYI, kind of. I liked you a lot yesterday, did you notice?"

Patrick presses the pads of his fingers against his eyes. "No, I didn't," he says. "But that's nice." He peers out from beneath his hands to catch eyes with Pete, and they both snort out a laugh. "It's really early," Patrick moans sadly.

"I know," Pete says sympathetically, even though it's not, and he pulls Patrick's fingers away, gently, pressing his palms firmly into the bed. "I'm sorry. But if you want to be a fucking rock star, Patrick Stump…"

"Oh shut up, Ryan Seacrest," Patrick interrupts. He wriggles his fingers a little, testing Pete's hold. He's smiling down at him, though, and Pete is beaming back up.

"Okay, okay." Pete releases one hand to scratch at the drip of water running down his back in one long, irritating tickle. Patrick doesn't move the hand, waiting, as Pete sits back on his heels to survey him. Patrick can see the outline of his cock through the towel.

Pete's grin turns shit-eating as he gazes at him, and he bites his lip a little as he says, "Let's wake you up then," low, too low. Patrick would laugh, but Pete leans forward, kisses Patrick hard, and he tastes of toothpaste. He smells of soap. His skin is wet.

Patrick breathes through his nose, heavy, and kisses Pete back, his free hand pressed at the base of Pete's neck, the other twitching against the mattress. Pete pushes the tangled sheets out of the way with a loud rustle and presses his hand against Patrick's leg, his thigh. "Can I blow you?" he asks, muffled, the words pressed uncomfortably against Patrick's open mouth.

Patrick smiles into it, laughing with a low rumble at the back of his throat as he says, "Uh, yeah. Yeah."

Pete's fingers dance higher, touching, tantalizing, resting against Patrick's stomach and the tops of his thighs. Patrick shivers at the warm breath and touch, so close, and mouths at Pete's neck as he goes down. Patrick's boxers are old and wash-soft, a stain in the front from where Pete jerked him off quick in the bunks way back. That was months ago, now.

Pete's fingers are still here though, fucking touching him, soft and quick on Patrick's hips as he slides his boxers down, the tips brushing at his skin all the way. The air is early morning cold and Pete's breath is hot and heavy with arousal, and Patrick hitches out a soft, "Fuck," at the combination, at the unbearable wetness of Pete's mouth as he sucks on the head of Patrick's cock.

"I swear," Patrick murmurs softly as he cards fingers through Pete's damp hair, tugging at the back. The sun falls through the hotel window and paints the curve of Pete's shoulders golden.

Pete makes a soft sound at the back of his throat and fists the base with his right palm, goes down further and feels Patrick tense, sees the tremble in his thighs. Patrick's cock feels thick and perfect in his mouth, and he squeezes his hand, chances a glance upwards through the damp sweep of his fringe. Patrick's eyes are open, on him, and his mouth is parted, his lips red.

Patrick murmurs, "Pete," to him, directly to him, and runs his fingers through Pete's hair, tilts his head back and moans. "Oh, fuck. Fuck you, Pete, fuck you."

Pete smiles and grips tighter, sucks hard on Patrick's cock because he knows he doesn't mean it, and Patrick makes a low, keening noise at the back of his throat and closes his eyes. Pete pulls back, goes back down, sucks hard and listens as Patrick moans, feels the sharp tug and soothing strokes in his hair. He pulls back, licks a line up the center of Patrick's cock and mouths at the head, his free hand dipping down beneath the towel to where he is hard, so fucking hard.

"Congratulations," he says, breathless and raw and full of laughter, "you're a fucking porn star, Patrick Stump."

"Oh my god shut up," Patrick hisses back, his eyes stubbornly closed. Pete sucks the head of his cock back in, circles his tongue, pulls back off. Patrick moans and fists Pete's hair harder. "Fuck you, you fucking. You. Are you jerking off? If you're fucking jerking off, Pete. I'll."

"You'll what, huh?" Pete's voice is forced, heavy, and he strokes himself faster, breathes hotly against Patrick's cock. Patrick's hips twitch forward and he makes a small, desperate sound. Pete's fist around the base tightens and he leans forward and sucks him hard, because he fucking loves-

"Fuck you," Patrick just repeats breathlessly. "You fucking dick, shut up."

Patrick's hands are at the back of Pete's neck, his head, and he's pushing him down, thrusting up hard, and Pete is so fucking turned on it's ridiculous. He doesn't even notice, doesn't register when Patrick starts mumbling, "Pete. Pete. PetePetePete", just swallows around Patrick's dick and wishes he had enough hands to touch Patrick's trembling thighs as he lifts his hips and moans.

Pete ducks back at the last moment, letting Patrick come against his cheek, and he presses his forehead to Patrick's stomach, his legs, and pants hard against Patrick's skin as he jerks himself off. He comes with a groan with Patrick's fingers in his hair and the sharp smell of Patrick all around him, the taste and heavy feel of him still on his tongue.

Patrick sighs a little, when they're done, still trying to catch his breath as he pulls Pete up to kiss him. Pete clambers a little, pressing hands against Patrick's chest and keening into his mouth. Patrick kisses Pete's cheek and makes faces at the taste, and Pete loves him for doing that, loves him for pulling Pete onto the mattress with him and kissing him, and pulling the covers over them, so that it's just them in the dark.

"I like your fort," Pete says in the muffled warmth of the cave that they create. His voice is a little scratchy.

Patrick presses a finger into Pete's cheek with twinkling eyes. "I like your way of waking me up in the morning."



-



The first time, the time that is the it it, is too hot too much not enough, Pete can barely breathe with it. Fucking Patrick is here, fucking panting here beneath him, oh god, he's fucking- Patrick. Patrick's fucking eyes are shut, his fucking gorgeous eyes.

Patrick: his mostly straight best friend.

Patrick is the singer in his band, Patrick is the best decision he ever made, Patrick is--

Patrick turns his head to the side, and there's this line of sweat down his neck that Pete wants to lick. Patrick's voice is strained and hoarse when he moans, "Pete," and Pete kisses him fiercely and touches his hands, and every centimeter of him is saying mine, mine.

"Could you just," Patrick gasps, and Pete mutters, "Yes, yes yes," without knowing what the question is, because anything, he'll do anything.



-



Andy sits with Pete at breakfast and watches him thoughtfully for irritatingly long and oppressively silent periods of time. Pete is on his second cup of coffee, first cocktail of pills, and second pop tart of the morning before he snaps, muttering out, "If you want something, Andrew, just ask," through his mouthful.

Andy turns the page of the newspaper he was staring Pete down over. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," he says breezily. But he bites his lip hard, and only manages to turn one more page without looking at it before giving up and setting it down. "So you're in love with Patrick or whatever, then," is what he finishes with, matter-of-factly.

Pete pauses mid-chew and looks over at him, at Andy, his best friend. Andy is stern and nervous all at once, and Pete cannot lie to him in any way. It's been nearly five months, and Andy has never been righter.

Pete swallows. "Your point being?"

"Nothing," Andy says, forcibly nonchalant. "Just thought I'd clear the air or whatever. Dude, do you have any idea how much unnecessary packaging those things come with? And slow the fuck down with the java, no fucking wonder you can't sleep."

Pete rolls his eyes and mutters, "Yes, mom," in a voice dripping with sarcasm, but for the rest of the morning Andy's eyes are suspiciously twinkly.



-




It's not really a question of the 'if', it's the 'when', and that's what gets Pete in the dark hours when Patrick's sleeping. It's the when Pete's dumb fucking mouth gets ahead of him, or his dick gets in front of him, or his painful ability to fuck himself over becomes Patrick specific, that the fuckery will occur. And okay, when you're Pete Wentz you prepare yourself for that. Mostly. But this is Patrick, and sometimes Pete just wishes.

Pete doesn't like to talk about it much because blurted confessions like that tend to lead to shouting, and punching, and throwing inanimate objects at the significant other in question, in his experience, and he would just like to maybe hold on to this a little first.

It's only when Patrick gets suspicious that it comes out, constant questions dragging it out of Pete, of, "Dude, are you on new pills and you aren't telling me?" and, "Has something happened? Pete, shit happens, if you'd just tell me…?" Followed up by the inevitable, "Fuck you, Pete, you haven't slept in three days and you're lying about it, come the fuck on."

Patrick is fiery and hot when he's angry, and Pete makes him angry the most, so it's fitting that it's after a heated brawl that Pete finally talks: a fight consisting mainly of Patrick trying to do the best-friend thing of discovering the reason behind Pete's black cloud and assfuckery, coupled with Pete's morose self-hate at feeling trapped inside his own head, in the what-if's that are spiraling into realities.

Patrick goes to bed fuming and Pete goes to bed stubborn and helpless, mind trained on Patrick's, "Pete, what the fuck, dude, what the fuck," that started it. Pete doesn't know what the fuck, and never has, but the simplest form of it provides the easiest escape route.

Pete sends an, im fcking sorry ok that is nothing if not heartfelt, tapped out quick in the dark. Patrick replies lightning quick with an i wish u didnt thnk this ws the only form of communication. The words are bitter.

Pete sighs and says, if u have nothingyou have nothing to lose do u get that, and Patrick says yes, but, yr fucking smthing up tht isnt ready to be, dickwad, and Patrick is so painfully, annoyingly right.

Pete breathes at the words, because yes, he knows it, he can see it, clear as day, and he says ok ok i get you p, I getu iget you. im sorrysorry with aching hope in his chest and worryworry constant at the back, underneath it.

And it isn't the world-ending sort of fight, because Patrick comes into Pete's bed, his bunk, half an hour after the fight, and slides in next to Pete, hugs him tight.

Pete says, "I'm sorry that I'll always be the asshole in this."

Patrick smiles and mutters, "You won't, trust me," in a voice that's loving and light with laughter. Patrick kisses Pete's jaw, and it's supposed to be comforting when he says, "I wouldn't want you to be any less of a dick, Peter Wentz," in a soft, contented sort of way that he absolutely means.

Pete sighs and laughs with relief into Patrick's ear, because that's all he could ever really hope for.




-




Pete gets jerked off in the toilet of a plane, and it's probably the most uncomfortable experience of his life. Patrick keeps hitting his arm against the sink and swearing, and Pete keeps sniggering at him, laughing into his neck, because oh my god, the mile high club is nothing like he thought it'd be.

"You know, you're really hot when you're all nervous and twitchy," Pete says with his big stupid mouth, and kisses Patrick's pretty lips, puts hands to his jaw, his face. He moans against Patrick's mouth and Patrick mutters, "ssh, ssh," but smiles into it, leans his forehead to Pete's and breathes hot strained breath across his face.

"You know, if I didn't know you had such a loud fucking mouth, I'd let you fuck me in here, bent right over," Patrick says, hushed and slow.

Pete groans and bucks into Patrick's hand, whispers, "Please pleaseplease," in a desperate hitch, but Patrick just laughs softly and presses Pete's knuckles against the front of his jeans, his dick hard against the ridge. Patrick is turned on, is hard for him, all flushed at the edges, and there are people just outside the door while Patrick's fucking callused perfect hands are hot and tight around his cock. Pete mutters, "Shit," and comes hard against Patrick's fingers.

Patrick smiles and smiles at him, tells him, "You're cute," as Pete zips back up.

"Shut up," Pete says, laughing, and undoes Patrick's jeans.



-




At the beginning they had had the conversation: Pete well-fucked and satisfied, and Patrick dozy-contented, curled against his side. It had been a long day of promo, interviews and questions and then more interviews, cameras on the bus and backstage, snapped snippets of conversation and opinion followed by yet more tireless invasion.

Patrick was likeable and friendly throughout, only caught off guard by the quick fire round as they were stepping offstage, but he played it off with only mild distraction. But Pete was another matter, and by the end of it he was getting bored, borderline fucked off, and subsequently his comments were getting more and more ludicrous. The questions about being 'the front man' gained quick retorts in the form of, "Yeah, I don't know who those other three are, actually, do you?" and comments leading on to 'issues' of bisexuality and androgynous fashion flair blended into Pete declaring his undying love for almost all of the male members of the Decaydance family. Joe dragged him off eventually, before Pete started getting angry, or too close to the truth, but it was enough.

"Do you think," Patrick starts softly, fingers against the black swirls of Pete's arms. "Pete. Do we, are we going to have to tell people? Do you think? I mean. You know."

Patrick's voice is carefully soft, and Pete thinks of the faces of the interviewers today, imagines their expressions as he holds Patrick close and says with proud defiant certainty that, "Yes. We are." He thinks of the endless probing that an admission would bring, the constant constant headlines and paps and false eyewitness accounts that would crawl out of the woodwork.

But there's a part of him, as Pete Wentz, that would like to see it all across Perez's site, would like to log on and see pictures of them holding hands on the walk to the buses plastered across gossip mags and gossip blogs. He wouldn't mind, he thinks, answering all those mindnumbing personal questions, persistent and repetitive as they would get, if it would mean Patrick could be there, answering with him, a hand on Pete's hip, a shared smile passed between. It would be worth it.

"I don't know," Pete says carefully. He looks at Patrick sideways. "Why? Do you want to?"

Patrick bites his lip some and lets out this long, exhausted breath. "Not really," he admits. "I sort of like that no one else knows. That we have something private."

Pete thinks matching white suits and white picket fences. Thinks photo albums and growing old together.

He traces Patrick's shoulder, pulls him in closer, breathes him in. "Then we don't have to tell anyone," he says.

But they do, kind of. Andy knows, because it's Andy, and so does Joe, despite their best efforts to be discreet. "Whatever, dude," Joe says with a shrug when Patrick does a foolish blush-ridden attempt at a confession. "I heard you guys going at it like, months ago. As long as you pay for the therapy sessions, we're cool."

Close security and lifelong friends just seem to kind of know, and happily also seem to be almost entirely unfazed by it. Maybe because it was so inevitable, as Ryan Ross so kindly puts it. It becomes unspoken knowledge among the select few, and the unspoken rule is Not To Tell, as well as to keep cooing to a minimum. Patrick gets pretty touchy about it, still.

Valentine's Day is the worst, with almost everyone in on It clubbing together to buy horribly embarrassing gifts, mainly just to see Pete's beam of pride and Patrick's scarlet tinged protests. "I do not always bottom!" Patrick says shrilly by the third dildo, Pete cackling to his left and William Beckett obnoxious and grinning as he documents the horror with camera flash after camera flash.

It's not long after that that Patrick gets called back to the studio for a few days, vocal talents and production required for the completion of his latest project. It's exciting, it's creating, and Patrick barely makes sure his schedule allows for it before he says yes.

"Are you excited, dude?" Joe asks, mid-game, as Patrick packs.

Patrick shoves in another t-shirt, another trucker hat, and grins wide. "Dude, yes. I haven't been in a studio for far too fucking long."

"Is Pete okay with it?"

Patrick frowns, shrugs. "I think so. I mean, why wouldn't he be? I am often considered to be an entirely whole person all by myself, sometimes." And it's true; it's not like it's the first time they've been apart over the past six months. Pete is constantly travelling back to LA, New York, Chicago, for Clandestine, for the label. Patrick takes him to and from the airport sometimes, hangs out quite happily with Joe and Andy or whoever while Pete is gone, and doesn't miss him so bad. Pete is still his annoying best friend, and always will be; it's just sort of nice that the calls Patrick gets late at night from Pete with a run-through of his day now end with an, "I miss you," or, "I wish you were here with me."

Pete is self-admittedly the jealous type, though, but it's still surprising that he is so unthrilled for Patrick when he finds out. Just quiet, and a little cold. Patrick is disappointed but refuses to take the bullshit, walks away from it, and spends his time on the phone to LA, arranging, rearranging, confirming.

Pete texts him sad melancholy things for hours, pathetic and unnecessary, before Patrick snaps, sends back a sharp: stop freaking out. this is a shitty favor ok?i mean theyre your friends too so whatever.

Patrick waits a long time before the reply comes through. A sad, pleading: but yr my Patrick.

The words lit up on the screen of Patrick's cell are taunting and manipulative, and the kind of thing that Pete says, sometimes, because he knows it pulls at Patrick's heartstrings. And Patrick does, he thinks for that second of that moment that he can't, won't. He types out a quick ok ok I wont and erases it, tries again with a fuck you, that’s not fair. But that's not right either, and his fingers tap at the keys in agitation until he gets two blanks from Pete, three, and a fourth with a single question mark. So Patrick thinks a hot and blinding fuck it and dials.

"Look," he snaps when Pete answers on the second ring, "I want you to know that I am not 'your' Patrick. I am my Patrick. And I want to go and do this, and I'd sort of appreciate it if you could just, I don't know, not be a dick about it? Because that would be kind of nice. I don't understand what your problem is."

"Okay whoa, whoa, wait-"

"You know what, NO." Patrick feels himself getting angrier, feels fucking frustrated to the very core that Pete has to do this, has to do this now. "This isn't even anything to do with you, Pete," Patrick says, blunt. "I don't know why we're even having this conversation. I don't."

There's a long pause, filled only with the sound of Pete's low exhales and the background traffic. Pete is only a tour bus away. "They're on my label," Pete says eventually, petulant. "I should be the one to go. I should-"

"Are you the one that's singing, or producing, or doing any of that shit, huh? Are you? No, Pete, you're not, I don't get why you have to get involved. This is just - what is this?"

Pete's voice has more bite as he cuts in with a sharp, "They're signed to my label, okay? They're my business, and I don't appreciate you just -"

"Going off? Doing something on my own? Is that what it is? They're your band and they're signed to your label, and I'm in your band and I've had your dick, is that how it works? Do I have 'Property of Pete Wentz' stamped to my fucking forehead? Because I'd fucking like to know if I do, so I can say goodbye to ever having a fucking private life again."

"I am your fucking private life." Pete's voice is cold over every syllable.

Patrick grits his teeth and says, "Were."

Silence. Patrick bites his lip to draw it back in again and feels the sting he caused in the very air, wants to take it back, say, okay, that was too far, I'm sorry. He doesn't, though, it just makes him angrier, that stupid hurt silence on the other end of the line makes him want to-

He sighs, puts a hand to his forehead and says, "Okay, you know what, fuck you Pete. I'll talk to you when I get back." And he pauses a moment, waits for a goodbye or a - something with hot guilt in his belly, but it doesn't come. He can hear Pete breathing and saying nothing and hates it with all his worth, so he thumbs off the call and violently tells his phone to fuck off.

Patrick goes and works like crazy and feels fucking alive, and it feels amazing apart from that feeling he gets, sometimes, like he's running with a leg gone. Pete doesn't call or text for two days, which is unheard of but understandable, but Joe calls and has long, inquisitive conversations with either a half-asleep Patrick or his voicemail, mostly concerning Pete: "I don't know, dude, but he's really pissed," and, "Are you guys on a fight? What's going on, Patrick, man." "I think you should come back, like, yesterday. Pete's doing the world hates me thing. You don't hate him right, Patrick? Right?"

And Patrick feels bad, okay, Patrick feels like he fucked up and said stupid shit and that's what Pete should do, god. Patrick should have some fucking control, or at least be able to keep his mouth shut, but apparently not. Away from all of them and working with other people and having a wonderful time is like winning third place after trying his hardest. Patrick misses Pete's early morning breath.

Eventually Andy manages to get Joe to pass over the phone, and he is quiet and sensible as he says, "Look, Pete fucked up, I get it. He gave you bullshit, I get that. Now come home and sort it out. I am sick of playing mediator, and you know that Joe sucks at it, too. Dude, just. You know?"

Patrick catches the next Red Eye back, and after a quick pick up he's at the hotel they're staying at, home. He's supposed to be sharing with Joe - something neatly arranged during his absence - but when he arrives on the third floor it's the door next to his that he key-cards.

Pete is laid out on the bed looking morose and unwashed. Patrick steps in and shuts the door behind with a swift kick, and he comes forward to drop his bags on the soft beige carpet with a false air of determination. Pete looks over at him in silence, unsurprised.

Patrick is quiet, too, as he looks at Pete, and he remembers the feel of Pete's stubble against his cheek, and the sureness of his hands, the sureness of him.

"I'm sorry," Patrick says in a tight voice. "I'm sorry, I want you to be my private life, I do. I do."

Pete just says, "We had our first fight. This was our first big fight after. You know." His voice doesn't sound like his own and his eyes are inherently sad, but he motions Patrick over to him, and Patrick goes. "I hated it," Pete says, over and over. "I hated it, let's not do it again. Patrick. I hated every minute of it."

Patrick nods and nods and kisses him, kisses his face, and feels Pete's stubble on his cheek, feels the certainty of Pete's hands on his back and shoulders. And he thinks it, the it it, but he doesn't say it.




-



The first time they go home after what seems like endless years away from it, Pete sleeps for ten hours straight. Admittedly it's during the daytime, and the second dusk hits he's wide awake, but still. Ten fucking hours.

He wakes to messages from Joe saying that oh my god dude everythings so different what the fuck and messages from old friends saying dude I heard youre in town, lets hang out. its been too long, and it has.

Hemmy's at his parent's house and Pete wants Patrick. He gets him when Patrick takes a detour back from his mom's; he arrives all red-faced and flushed from the cold.

Patrick lets himself in, and catches Pete in the kitchen, kisses him quick before heading for a mug of something hot. "Dude, seriously, you need to go shopping," he says as he rummages, and looks up grinning. Pete smiles back faintly and goes to find a t-shirt.

Pete doesn't sleep that night with Patrick curled around him, and the blue-black light of his own room unfamiliar all around and above. Pete says, "Patrick," quiet, and then again louder, just to be sure of him.

Patrick snuffles against his neck and squeezes him tighter. "What?" he mumbles. "Go to sleep."

And Pete tries and tries but can't, so he gets up and makes himself coffee, padding the shadows of the house in just his boxers and thinking over and over, home, as if trying to convince himself. He sits in the armchair in his room and watches Patrick sleep in his bed, his palm flat on the pillow by his head and the other laid out against the comforter in the space where Pete had been. Pete watches Patrick in the dark and thinks, you're such a little creep, Jesus.

He laughs to himself some, and leans his head back against the chair to smile at the ceiling.

He doesn't sleep, but the next day Pete sits on the porch step and breathes in the sharp chill of early morning. His breath comes out foggy and he guesses he should probably be wearing more layers, but he has that mindless anxiety at the back of his head that comes after a night of too much thinking, and he can do nothing but sit, and exist.

There are soft steps from behind, and then the scrape of a stop, the shift of weight to get rested.

"What are you doing out here?" Patrick asks. "It's like minus a billion, Pete. Pete."

Pete doesn't answer, just twists his cell phone up-down, up-down, left-right. Patrick sighs a little, and sits himself down on the step next to him. His hoodie is baggy and old and all stretched out from too many washings. Patrick uses the sleeve ends as gloves, wrapping his hands up in the fabric. Pete remembers sleeping in it, before, because it smells like Patrick.

"I want you to know," Pete starts, slowly, "that if I fuck this up, you're not allowed to hate me." He tells it to Patrick's sleeve, but Patrick is looking at him with careful thoughtful eyes all the while.

"And I want you to know that I probably will hate you. A lot," Patrick says simply, with the bare honesty that can only come with best friendship. "I'll probably scream at you and you'll probably scream at me, and then you'll probably throw things, and I'll hit them. But it won't mean what you will think it means, because this is me. Okay? This is me."

Pete looks straight out, at the driveway and Patrick's car parked there. "I don't want to lose you."

"You didn't let me finish." Patrick knocks Pete's shoulder with his own and glances across. "Even if you - Even when you fuck up, even if we hate each other, even if we have huge stupid fights and you get all existential and I get fucking mad - It won't mean that I don't still love you. You know?" Patrick sighs and rubs at his cold nose. "It's not going to be a thing that will just go away because I'm pissed, or you're pissed. It's a - thing thing, you know? A big thing thing. It's not going to be you fuck up and there being three hits and I'm gone. It's going to be three hits and I'm still here."

Pete is silent for a moment, a long, long moment, in which images flash through his mind like a home movie: the scrunch of Patrick's face when he's mad, when he's screaming; the hot flash in his eyes when Pete says or does something stupid; the soft twinkle when he's happy, truly happy. The way he looks first thing in the morning, disheveled and grumpy, and the way he'll let Pete kiss him and touch him regardless. The way he looks and acts and is every precious moment of every day forever.

Pete reaches across, and swaps cell phone for Patrick. Their hands are an odd mixture of clammy and cold.

"You know, I have this big, massive thing thing for you, too," Pete says. "And I'm sorry in advance."

Patrick squeezes his hand tight, tighter, and leans closer, rests his head on Pete's shoulder. "I know," he says. "And I forgive you."